This year, she had a longer list. We didn’t mind. She went though a very tough year—losing our bunnies and moving to a new school—and she has handled it all well. She wrote her list out all by herself and every word was legible. We figure Santa will be as proud of her as we are, and will gladly bring her everything she wants.

A barbie jet or a barbie cruise ship.

A jewelry-making kit.

Daisy or Trixie (both Fur Real Friends® pets).

An Anna and Elsa doll (from the movie Frozen).

A pogo stick.

A remote-controlled car.

Toy Story DVDs

A Hot Wheels track set.

A Little Mermaid or Frozen play set.

Lincoln Logs.

“That’s a sackful!” I said as we waited in line.

“I gave Santa choices.” she replied. “Maybe half a sack.”

“No, I think that sack’s gonna be full.”

It took almost two hours, and she was so patient. When it was finally her turn, she stepped right up, sat next to Santa, and read her list.

Her speech has come so far in the last few years, and her handwriting has improved so much in just the last few months. Watching her, we were both so proud.

Jonathan Demme’s 1984 Talking Heads movie Stop Making Sensefeatures maybe the most famous opening of any concert film. David Byrne strides onstage in a gray suit and white canvas sneakers and lays a boombox at his feet. “Hi,” he says. “I got a tape I want to play.” He presses a button and a pulsing, slithering rhythm emerges. The crowd goes wild; Byrne strums the opening chords of “Psycho Killer.”

The boombox is a lie; it’s not even mic’d. The sound that fills the stage and screen is a Roland TR-808, plugged into a mixing board far from the camera’s gaze, defined by invisibility.

I am a 10-month-old baby and I write because my mother has been sending out my “Christmas List” to people, and her list does not in any way represent the things I really want. I could give two s#*ts about receiving stacking cups.

And I know you’re ready to make the joke about 10-month-old babies and how all we want is the wrapping paper and the boxes. Touché, Santa. Touché. We do, of course, want those things. But I have a number of additional things I want very badly.

And while fans and the media try to sort out the blame game, with the team’s infrastructure frayed and exposed, keep this in mind: No matter how he tries to spin it, Mike Shanahan had total control of this franchise. He demanded as much, and he has final say over everything remotely related to football operations this team has done since he arrived in 2010 (and, frankly, even before then, with Snyder’s lust to hire Shanahan well known in NFL circles while Jim Zorn was still coaching the team, and the 2009 in-season arrival of “general manager” Bruce Allen all part of that master plan). Allen carries the title, nominally, but Shanahan has authority over the 53-man roster and the game-day roster and any move the team makes. Allen works for him. Shanahan got it all his way.

Like this:

Anna is working on her Santa list again this year. This is the third year she’s put one together with Julia’s help. In the past, she cut out pictures of the toys, games, books, and videos she’s wanted and glue-sticked them on a sheet of paper, but this year—for the first time—she’s writing the list herself.

Anna is struggling with handwriting, due to possible Dysgraphia related to her Childhood Apraxia of Speech, so writing a short, legible letter to Santa is a big deal for her.

Toy catalog in hand, she told Julia what she wanted to say, Julia wrote it out and then Anna copied it. Once they were done, they brought the letter in to show me. It wasn’t perfect, but I could read every word. I gave her a high five and a hug for her good work, and then we rehearsed her visit to Santa:

That one day, we will all hold hands and D A N C E in heaven, like birds on trees, being moved by the warm magnolia breeze, like purple annuals and yellow perennials growing in the same garden of love.